


Vargamor

by lina_bean



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:02:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17834333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lina_bean/pseuds/lina_bean
Summary: What if the Northmen were more influenced by the Gods than they knew?





	Vargamor

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this is that Ivar fic I told myself I was gonna try out a while ago. Also it's my first work on this site, obviously. Sorry if it’s a little long for the first chapter, I got a little carried away. It’s gonna be a little different than the actual show, but not too much as to label it an AU. Ivar x OC reader. I know it has a little bit of Ubbe and Ragnar vibes here in this chapter but its strictly Ivar. OC is about two years younger than Ivar in this fic series.  
> Word Count: 1,444  
> Warnings: None that I know of. If you see anything you think should be tagged as one, let me know!  
> (Also, the runic phrase used as a time-split between sections means 'fate' in Old Norse.)

It seemed the Gods were angry this night. The quilt of black sky's seams split open, their distressed threads becoming long, silver streaks of lightning that chased the stars. The glistening fibers that fell from its tattered frame became the sopping trees, which became the swamped ground, which sloshed and spit as a stranger staggered to a cabin on the farthest outskirts of the mountains. The figure had swathed their priceless cargo in layers of cloth to shield it from the showering sky, and perhaps other, more  _ watchful _ things.

Laid into the bend of the visitor's arm, the bundle shook with the force of its carrier's strikes upon the heavy wooden door before them—their one palm cradling the soft fabrics while the other beat thrice into the weathered spruce. The cloaked figure knew no more was needed; the souls that lived inside would rise to bear the burden he came to deliver. This confidence let him slip the parcel onto the small patch of dry sand before the door without unease. His purpose had been fulfilled, for now, anyway. The duties passed through the cracks in the wood of the door the moment the swaddle's linens met the grainy earth beneath them—like the water met the shore just feet away. And just as quickly, the stranger departed the dwelling.

He lingered, though, watching from behind distant trees as faint light flooded through the crack beneath the door, and listening to the troubled whispering heard moments before it groaned open. The light was slightly stronger now, enveloping the tall, lanky figure that appeared in the doorway. His head swiveled down to inspect the surprise planted at his feet and, though the light upon his face was scant, the stranger sensed thick anxiety in the air. The tenant turned inside and gestured for whoever else to hurry, like death hung upon the doorframe. Now that he had truly witnessed his purpose come to an end, he made his leave. Not before, however, his omniscient ears heard a jittery voice cry out.

"Helga! Come quick!"

 ᚠᚨᛏᛖ

That sodden night was so long ago, nearly fourteen years. Now the skies of Norway were brighter, not so frequently streaked with Thor's* veins. It was now warm with Sól's* radiant smile, her laughter becoming the gentle breeze that blew through the trees near that same cabin at the foot of the mountains. The spruce door was now even more weathered, and the shoreline had receded much farther, perhaps like the tenant's hair had since his house was bestowed such a gift as little  _ Norne _ . That was what Floki and Helga decided to call her, the swathed present left mysteriously at their door ages ago, it seemed.

Now the raven-haired girl sat by the shore on her knees, the toes of her boots buried in the sand behind her. She held a small idol in her hands of Mimir*, the wisest of her people's worshipped deities. It was an idol carved from a piece of worn Birch, with a runic reminder carved into the base. She smiled softly down at it, recalling how she watched her uncle widdle it so nimbly so many years ago. As he bestowed it to her beside the crackling hearth, he explained to her why such an Aesir was the muse.

_"Anyone can be brave or strong, but to be_ wise _and choose a higher path is to be the strongest," he said with stern, yet caring eyes. She took the totem from his long, lithe fingers and studied it with her own—her pine eyes enamored by the tiny trinket. It was carved from the vast supply of wood Floki used for shipbuilding, but since he rarely visited such a pastime anymore, he thought it would do no harm to model his_ elskede* _a protective idol._

_ The figure itself resembled a rounded well, on the side of which sat the roughly shaven head of an old, bearded man. His small eyes, though wooden, seemed to hold all the knowledge of the nine worlds. Norne stared into them in awe. She felt somewhere inside that she recognized this disembodied head, and the thought astounded her. This thought was soon discarded, however, as Aunt Helga called for supper.  _

The same kind voice startled Norne out of her memory and she turned her attentive eyes to who had called for her. Helga stood with a basket on one arm and the other beckoning Norne to follow.

“Come,  _ yndið mítt _ ,* we must go to the market,” Helga nodded her head in the direction of Kattegat, the village near the bay where all the other people lived. Norne leapt from the sand in excitement, the skirts of her dresses ruffling around her legs—sand still clinging to the fabric. She was always content with accompanying her aunt into Kattegat, for it gave her the opportunity to see the new and exciting sights she could rarely witness. There were always new things coming in on the ships that had departed months and months ago from the docks—returning with traded goods and raided treasure. These were the things of Norne’s dreams and imagination. This excited her indeed, along with the hope that she might be gifted with the company of someone she hadn’t seen since her last brief trip down the shore. 

 

ᚠᚨᛏᛖ

 

Norne held loosely onto Helga’s free arm as they walked through the shop-lined streets of Kattegat. Every corner they rounded provided new discoveries, ones Norne was eager to set her eyes and hands upon. But Helga would always  _ tsk  _ and remind her young company that Uncle Floki could produce much finer trinkets. Still though, Helga often caught Norne inching back towards the knick-knacks while her back was turned. 

While they passed the merchants with food and ale,  Norne’s eye was caught by a small table that held flowers of all kinds—some imported and some harvested in their very own northern hills. The imported ones seemed to be wilting or close to dead, as their roots were left behind in foreign soil many months ago. Those would most likely be bought for spice or medicine. But the ones that were more locally picked were still fresh and beautiful, as if recently bloomed. There were ones that were blue as the fjord, as red as the blood of a harvest  _ blót*,  _ as green as the needles of a Spruce, and as pink as Norne’s own cheeks in the winter months. But Norne eyed the ones resembling vibrant sunshine the most. 

Usually Kattegat was bleak and rainy, but there were some days (including this day) that Sól's embrace would bless the countryside and its people. Therefore, anything that reminded Norne of the warmth of the sun was something she enjoyed. 

The weathered old woman behind the table must have seen Norne eyeing the golden Goat’s Beard* bloom, because she held out one by its stem in her wrinkled hand. Norne gave a bashful smile and took it gingerly from the old woman’s hand, twirling it once and then placing it between the twists of the braids near her ear. She was so distracted with the flower she didn’t notice people running and swarming around the front gate of the village until Helga began pulling her along by her arm. Norne shouted a ‘thank you’ to the old woman and waved, struggling to keep up with her aunt’s pace. 

As they neared the edge of Kattegat, Norne could see that the crowd had formed a circle around something. Being too short, Norne could barely see over the heads of the others to peak at what the commotion was. Her face spread into a wide, surprised smile though, when she caught a glimpse of dirty-blond braided hair above the rest. 

“Ubbe!” 

Norne tore from Helga’s grip and ignored her pleas to come back, pushing through the people without forgetting her manners. Soon she was at the front of the crowd, crashing into Ubbe Lothbrok from behind and wrapping her arms around him. The force from her impact caused Ubbe to grunt, but he didn't seem displeased —not with her at least. She glanced back at the crowd and saw Helga pushing through, the woman’s hand flying to her mouth in surprise. Norne released Ubbe and followed Helga’s stare. In her own surprise she stumbled back, stepping on a hand in her uneasy tread. 

“ _ Burlufotr!* _ Watch your step  _ meyla!*”  _

It did not matter if Norne was to look down at the victim of her misstep, for she would still find the same blue eyes that she stared into now. Ivar Lothbrok had always had the same oceanic eyes as his father, and now both pairs were on her. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Terms, in order of appearance:
> 
> *Vargamor: in Scandinavian Mythology, a witch, a psychic, and/or a woman who consorts with wolves.  
> *Thor: Norse God of Sky, Thunder and Fertility.  
> *Sól: the Sun personified in Norse Mythology.  
> *Mimir: Wisest Aesir God.  
> *Elskede: Old Norse for “Beloved One.”  
> *Yndið mítt: Old Norse for “My Sweetie.”  
> *Blót: Old Norse for “Sacrifice.”  
> *Goat’s Beard: A type of yellow flower native to Norway’s mountains.  
> *Burlufotr: Old Norse insult meaning “Clumsy Foot.”  
> *Meyla: Old Norse insult meaning “Little Girl.”


End file.
